


Never

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Series: Song Prompt Fics [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know you can always call Dean when you need him.</p><p>For the song prompt "Dean and Me" by JJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never

It only takes a call. It only ever takes one call, and he’s usually there within a few days, give or take if something really serious is going on. But he always shows. You don’t know what he tells Sam; it doesn’t matter. You only call him when you really need him, when it’s been so long since you’ve been touched that you start to feel a little untethered, disassociated from the world. There are other guys in between, but in the pit of your stomach you always long for Dean. You only call him when you can’t deny it anymore. **  
**

You know you’re too drunk this time—the phone shakes in your hand as you dial the number scrawled on the crinkled piece of paper, the one you keep stuffed in the corner of your jewelry box. You’ve never entered him as a contact in your phone because every time you call you tell yourself it will be the last time. It’s never the last time.

It rings twice, three times, and you think of him the night you met him, sitting at your bar, knocking back shot after shot, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, betraying his flirty smirk. He was messed up, you could tell, but you were drawn to him anyway, and you let him flirt with you, stay until closing, kiss you up against the bar after you’d locked the door, and fuck you raw on nearly every horizontal surface in your apartment. The next morning he left in a hurry, scrawling this number on the notepad magneted to your fridge, right next to your grocery list—paper towels, coffee, peanut butter, Dean Winchester. “Call me whenever you need me, darlin,” he said, touched your cheek, and then roared off in his black beauty of a car.

You don’t know his whole story, but you know a little. You know he has a brother that he would do anything for. You know he travels the country hunting monsters. Real monsters. Scary, evil shit. More often than not, when you see him, he’s battered and bruised. He always brushes it off— _you should have seen the other guy_ —eyes crinkling at the corners. You can’t do much but kiss his cuts and bruises, tell him to be safe when he leaves. Every time you call, there’s an ache in your belly and a nagging thought at the base of your skull that says he’s not going to answer because he’s dead. But he hasn’t let you down yet.

“Dean,” you breathe with relief when he picks up

“Y/N?” he asks, his voice low. You flop down onto your couch; the room is spinning—you’re definitely feeling that bottle of wine.

“Dean,” you say again, your voice a little steadier this time. You don’t need to say any more; he knows.

“I’m not that far away, sweetheart. We just finished up a case.”

* * *

It’s late when he finally pulls up. Your wine’s long gone and you’re dozing on the couch, but you hear the rumble of the impala’s engine and it stirs you awake. You’re still feeling a little dizzy drunk with just the start of a headache right above your eyes, but you’re at the door before he’s even lifted his hand to knock. You practically jump him, throwing your arms around his neck, but he’s ready for you, and he lifts you against him, his hands firmly under your ass, and kisses you hard, runs his tongue then his teeth over your bottom lip, and _god_ you missed him so much you feel like you might burst with it.

Every nerve in your body lights up and your stomach clenches with want as Dean backs you into the house and kicks the door shut behind him. He unceremoniously drops you on the couch, looks down at you hungrily as he toes off his shoes, and then crawls over you, reclaims your lips. He holds the back of your head like he thinks you might break, his lips warm and soft, coaxing yours open so his tongue can delve deep into your mouth.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, leaning back to shuck his jacket and drop it to the floor.

“Hey,” you say back, breathless because now he’s sucking a mark onto your pulse point and the rough stubble on his chin is rubbing against your collarbone, sending shocks of arousal right down to your core. You get your hands up inside his flannel shirt and push it off his shoulders and down his arms, wiggle down a little so you can reach his belt buckle and work it open. He’s got a hand on your breast, the other arm braced above your head on the back of the couch. He groans when you slide your hands into the front of his shorts and grip his cock, already hard, his hips lurching forward, and you smile.

“How you been, baby?” you ask him, tilting your head back to kiss his neck. Your words slur together, but not too much.

“Alright,” he grunts out as you stroke him, your fist beginning to get slick with precome. “Want you. Had two hours in the car to think about it on my way here.”

You laugh lightly and release his cock, wrap a hand around the back of his neck, and pull him down to you. He catches your lips in his again, kisses you senseless, then moves to your ear, your throat, your collarbone. He nuzzles his nose into the low-cut neckline of your shirt then pulls it down roughly with both hands, exposing your breasts, pushed up and on display with the cups of your bra now bunched underneath them. He closes his mouth around one of your nipples, flicks over the other one with his thumb, and your hips buck up of their own accord. You card your fingers through his hair, making it stand in all directions, and you’re writhing and panting by the time he lets up.

He hops to his feet, pulls you with him by the hand, peels off his t-shirt, and pushes down his jeans. He does quick work, and he’s already laying on his back on the couch by the time all your clothes hit the floor, his cock rigidly at attention, curving up toward his belly button. You throw a leg over him and straddle him, the underside of his dick slipping through the wetness of your pussy. You reach for the condom you left sitting on the end table, but Dean shakes his head, gets his hands behind your ass and pushes you up, scoots himself down, until his face is between your thighs. He wraps his hands around your hips and pulls you down to his mouth, runs his tongue flat along your folds up to your clit. Your whole body shakes, and you lean forward and brace your hands against the armrest.

“Dean, oh _god_ ,” you moan as he goes to town, licking and sucking, sliding two fingers into your wet heat. He works you close to a frenzy, and you can’t help grinding down against his mouth as he closes his lips around your clit and presses hard and hot with his tongue. You come with a shout, incoherent noises and curses spilling from your lips as you spasm against his tongue. He holds you there against his mouth, working you through it, his thumbs rubbing circles into the trembling muscles of your thighs.

“Oh my God, Dean,” you say, your voice hoarse from your cries, as he kisses the inside of your thigh, runs a hand down over your ass. He scoots down further, slips under your legs and off the couch. His hands land gently on your hips, and he turns you so you’re facing the back of the couch and then grabs the condom from the table.

You hear him tear it open, and after a beat, the head of his cock brushes your entrance as he lines up. You arch your back and lift your ass toward him as he slides in. He stills for just a breath and then starts pumping into you hard and fast. He’s hitting your sweet spot with every stroke, punching sounds out of you that you’ve never even heard yourself make before, and it has you gripping the couch cushion under you so hard your hand is cramping. The gentle touch of his hands brushing over your skin is a stark contrast to the rough thrust of his hips; he touches you almost reverently, your hips, your ass, the small of your back and up to your shoulder blades. His chest covers your back as he leans down over you, his breath hot on your ear.

“Let me hear it, babe— _auugghh_ — _god_ , you feel so. fucking. good.” He punctuates each word with a thrust of his hips. “I love those sounds you make, sweetheart. That’s it. Let me hear you come, baby. I want to hear you scream.”

“D-dean, I…oh _oh f-fuck_ , Dean.” He slides a hand around your hip to rub circles around your swollen clit, and you scream his name as you come, so intense your shaking legs threaten to give out on you and your vision goes white as you contract around him.

His hips start to falter in their rhythm, and he straightens up, holds out for one, two more thrusts before he goes rigid behind you, digs his fingers into your hips hard.

After you’ve both caught your breath and he’s taken care of the condom, he gathers you up in his arms and carries you fireman-style to your bed, snugs up behind you, and pulls the covers over you both. You sigh with contentment, lace your fingers with his against your belly before sliding into sleep.

* * *

When you wake up in the morning, your head is pounding and the bed is empty beside you. For a moment your heart races, worried he’s gone already. Did something happen to Sam? Did he have to leave in a rush? You sit up board straight and glance around the room. Surely if he had to leave in a hurry, he would have left a note, but you don’t see anything. You take a deep breath, get out of bed, and pull on your robe. But when you step into the hallway, you smell the unmistakable scent of coffee wafting up the stairs.

You find him in the kitchen, shirtless and barefoot, jeans slung low on his hips. He’s standing in front of the stove, so his back is to you, the muscles in his shoulders rippling as he reaches for the salt shaker on the counter. You take a seat at the island.

“Are you cooking me breakfast?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

He turns around and places a steaming mug of coffee in front of you, smiles his perfect smile with his eyes crinkling at the corners. You wrap your hands around it and smile back at him. Why does he have to make it so easy to fall in love with him?

You watch his bare back as he cooks scrambled eggs, open your mouth to say it, to tell him how crazy you are about him, how much you need him. How you want him in your kitchen and your bed and your heart forever. But then he turns around again, and you notice the stitched up cut just at the edge of his eyebrow, the bruise blooming under his eye, and your mouth snaps shut. Your heart aches, but you know in your gut that no matter how much you love him, it won’t make him stay. It wouldn’t be fair for you to ask that of him anyway; he’s got his brother to go back to, the world to save. You would never fit into his life, and he would never fit into yours.

You chat aimlessly about nonessential things while you eat your eggs, trying to keep your smile light even though your heart feels like it’s cracking into a thousand pieces inside your chest.

You hug him goodbye at the front door, wrapping your arms tight around his midsection. He kisses the top of your head, and you want to crawl inside him and bed down, stay forever. But you know that’s not what he needs. He needs you to let him go.

So you do. You watch the taillights of the impala all the way down the street until you can’t see them anymore. When you reenter the living room, you see that crinkled piece of paper sitting on the end table, right where you left it the night before. You pick it up, the paper worn soft in your hand, and look at it for a long while before taking it back upstairs and stuffing it back into its place in your jewelry box.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)


End file.
